


any excuse to stay awake with you

by arzoensis



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Age Difference, M/M, juuse is morosexual. attracted to dumbasses and dumbasses exclusively
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 02:35:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16547189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arzoensis/pseuds/arzoensis
Summary: Pekka figures Worlds will be a good place to reorient himself over the summer, try not to fall into the usual trap of relaxing too hard.How exactly he ends up with his backup lounging on his bed, feet in the air as he laughs at the TV show he put on, is completely beyond him.





	any excuse to stay awake with you

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Ariana Grande's "goodnight n go." It _was_ "Greedy," but is that too telling? Eh.
> 
> This takes place during 2015 Worlds. Pekka was 32 and Juuse was 20. We stan horny kings
> 
> Thanks Austin for reading this one too! Yippee

Worlds is always a fun experience, if a bit of a downer in the beginning. They all know that most of them are only there because their season is over. Pekka tries not to think about it too hard. Better to enjoy his time here.

He drops his bag on the floor, starts rummaging through it so he can sort out his stall. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a pair of skinny, socked legs in the stall next to him. Figures he should be polite, stands and wipes his hands on his sweatpants.

“Hey,” he says, and the guy glances up. Pekka recognizes him, even if he can’t quite remember his name. He played for Finland last year, though he spent most of his time in the press box. Brown hair. Blue eyes almost swallowed by his pupils, a mole high on his cheekbone.

“I’m Juuse,” he says.

“I remember you from last year,” Pekka says with a smile. He shakes Juuse’s hand. “It’s good to see you again.”

“You too,” Juuse says. “You’re starting again this year?”

Pekka shrugs, takes a seat on his bench. “Guess we’ll see.” When he turns to look at Juuse, he’s smiling faintly. “Are you gonna be my back-up this time?”

“That’s the plan,” Juuse grins at him, and Pekka thinks—absently, barely more than a flicker of thought—that he’s rather pretty. “Got any tips for me?”

“Don’t play _too_ well,” Pekka says with a wink. “ I want my spot.”

Juuse’s laughing as he kneels into his pads.

Practice is the same as it always is. Different players on the ice, and some drills Pekka hasn’t done before, but his job never really changes. Goaltending is goaltending.

He watches Juuse take his turn during half-ice set-ups. He squares up quickly, makes a pad save as easy as breathing. The last time he was here, he was the last goalie on the ice, practiced more as a learning experience than anything else.

Juuse’s all quick reflexes and smooth T-pushes. He’s inexperienced, certainly, but he’s good enough to be here. Good enough to hone that inexperience into something sleek and strong.

The coaches start setting up for the next drill, and Juuse follows him as they skate to the benches for water.

“You look good,” Pekka says, winces a little at his phrasing. Juuse doesn’t seem to notice at least, grinning instead. “You move around in the crease better than I did at that age.”

“Thanks.” Juuse tips his mask back on his head, douses his face with water. Pekka very carefully does not watch him do it. “If you have time, could you show me how you did that last drill?”

“Sure,” Pekka replies, and the coach starts calling everyone back for the next drill.

When Pekka stands to his full height, Juuse straightens up noticeably. Like maybe Pekka won’t notice he barely reaches his shoulder. It’s endearing, to be honest. Pekka has no idea why he thinks _that_ of all things is cute.

 

Pekka plays the first four games, drops the first to the U.S., but wins the next three. They put Juuse in against Slovakia and he holds the line, his first shutout at Worlds in the first game he plays. Pekka is absurdly proud of him.

They settle into a pleasant routine, eating their meals together. Really, they spend most of their time together. Juuse’s full of questions and follows him everywhere, always with a little awe in his expression. He wants to know how Pekka trains in the off-season, why he’s so careful with his diet, what he does for fun. When Pekka’s talking, Juuse’s full attention is on him, his eyes bright and wide. Sitting straight like any good student.

It’s flattering, honestly. Pekka’s only human. He’d like to believe that anyone would get a little hop in their step if Juuse looked at them like that. Tunnel vision. Like there’s nothing in the world except him.

“I didn’t start playing goal because of you, but watching you play kept me in the position, I think,” Juuse says. He’s rolling a meatball across his plate.

The cafeteria’s mostly cleared out, some vets playing cards and drinking coffee a couple tables over. Everyone they’d been sitting with left an hour ago, but Pekka’s been enjoying his conversations with Juuse, losing track of time with ease. He gets it in a way Pekka doesn’t know how to put his finger on, and maybe doesn’t want to poke at it in the first place. It’s just that it feels like Pekka’s known him for _years_.

“Really?” Pekka asks, a little amused. “I’m glad my early professional career was so formative then.”

“I remember recording your games because they’d start at three or four in the morning,” Juuse says, laughing. “And I’d still watch the highlights over and over again.”

“That’s some dedication,” Pekka says, smiling. “I don’t think my parents watched any of my games after my first year.”

Juuse shrugs. “I didn’t really have anything better to do. When you started playing in Nashville, I was...” Juuse wrinkles his nose in thought. “Thirteen, I think?”

Pekka imagines his dangerously inflated ego as a balloon, can practically feel it zipping madly around the room as it deflates. Yeah, that’d explain everything, wouldn’t it?

“It was cool though,” Juuse continues, smiling, absolutely oblivious to Pekka’s life flashing before his eyes. “I mean, you were picked in the eighth round. When I stopped getting taller, I just thought, ‘I’ll be like Pekka.’ I still think that sometimes.”

Juuse glances at him, shy like he doesn’t know how Pekka will take it. Pekka, for his part, thinks his chest might explode. He’s really whipping through emotions here.

As they take their dishes to the cleaning station, Juuse bumps his shoulder against Pekka’s. “Can I go over game tape with you? Maybe in your room?”

He’s looking at Pekka from under his eyelashes, is probably a too-long pause from biting at his lip. Pekka wonders why this is his life.

Pekka is also extremely stupid, must be the dumbest goddamn man on the planet, because he says yes. Juuse grins at him so big, and maybe that’s worth it.

They get into the elevator together, and Juuse says he’ll meet with him in fifteen minutes when the door opens. He disappears into his room as Pekka heads to his own at the end of the hall.

He wonders what Juuse’s gonna do. Wear a tank top? Put on some tighter pants? Maybe he’ll take off his underwear, Pekka thinks grimly.

Thankfully, Juuse shows up in the same shorts he was wearing earlier. That says nothing about his underwear. Pekka needs to stop thinking about Juuse’s underwear.

For what it’s worth, they do actually talk over game tape. Pekka hooks up his laptop to the TV and they play the video packages that the goalie coaches have been bundling for them. Juuse’s smart: he’s had to adapt his game for his size, always mindful of the gaps his body leaves in the net.

“You look smaller from that angle,” Juuse says, pausing the video and pointing out the way Pekka’s sealing his post. “Anyone can shoot far side.”

“There’s not much you can do in that play,” Pekka says with a frown. He lifts his hands, miming a glove and blocker as he pivots on one foot. “You’d have to be pretty aggressive. But if you come out of the net too far, it’d be easy to stop up and shoot anyway.”

“You can’t cheat either,” Juuse replies, thoughtful. “You’d have to play it by angle and speed.”

Juuse might be a decade younger than Pekka, but the way that he thinks about playing goal is beyond his years. The way he reasons through plays, thinks about the position—it’s nothing Pekka doesn’t know, but it’s what he didn’t figure out until he was much older than Juuse is now. He thinks that Juuse could be something big, wants to be a part of his growth.

He rewinds the tape and points out movements in the crease, feels too aware of the way that Juuse leans in to see what he’s pointing at.

 

“It’s getting late,” Pekka says, in the light sort of way where he’s trying not to say _get out of my room_ but also doesn’t actually want Juuse to leave. They’d started watching this Finnish TV show that Juuse has downloaded to his laptop, and it’s been fun just—hanging out with him.

“One more episode?” Juuse asks, finger already hovering over the trackpad.

“...Maybe one more. They’re short,” Pekka reasons.

He wakes up with a deep breath, eyes snapping open. The TV has gone dark by now, and he doesn’t even know if he finished the episode.

He levers himself off the armchair, finds the rough hotel slippers with his feet. The lamp’s still on, casting a dim light in the room, and Pekka shuffles over to turn it off. There’s the sound of rustling fabric, and Pekka almost jumps out of his skin.

Juuse is fast asleep, head pillowed on his arms and facing the TV. Pekka stares at him, does an uncomfortable squatting dance beside the bed as he tries to figure out if he can carry Juuse to his own room. Pros: no extremely unsubtle teenager trying to dry hump him in his sleep. Cons: Juuse is surprisingly muscular and Pekka is terrified of dropping him.

In the end, he decides that if this is truly what his life has come to, he can share a bed for one night. He folds back one of the sheets and drapes it gently over Juuse’s body. He hopes he doesn’t kick Juuse in the face. He imagines the coaches won’t be too pleased with him if he did that.

“Goodnight, Juuse,” Pekka murmurs, and he turns off the light.

 

Pekka wakes up again to a hand gently shaking him by his shoulder.

“Hey,” Juuse murmurs, and Pekka blinks sleepily at him. “Sorry I fell asleep in your room. I set your alarm. You can sleep for another hour.”

“Are you leaving already?” Pekka asks, and if he was more awake he’d hate the wistful, plaintive way he said that.

Juuse’s eyes are soft. “Yeah, I’m gonna go back to my own room. I’ll see you in a bit, okay?”

“Okay,” Pekka mumbles, closing his eyes. “Come back soon.”

The last thing he hears is the door clicking shut.

 

“What do you do when you’re back in Nashville?” Juuse asks. He’s lounging on Pekka’s bed across from him, back turned to the television. They’ve been hanging out in Pekka’s room a lot during the tournament, going over game tape or watching TV shows or just—talking.

“I’m not that interesting,” Pekka says. “I hike and try new recipes and sometimes I read a book. Definitely nothing you should model your life after.”

“I think you’re fun,” Juuse says with a shrug. “You’re easy to talk to.”

“There’s gotta be a better reason as to why you’re hanging out with an old man like me, right?” Pekka says, teasing, patting Juuse awkwardly on the side of his arm.

“I like you,” Juuse says, rather simply.

“Oh,” Pekka says. It’s like all the air’s been sucked out of the room.

“Is that really what you have to say?” Juuse asks after a short pause, one eyebrow artfully arched.

“Well, you know.” Pekka clears his throat. “I’m—it’s nice that you think of me as a friend.”

“It goes a little past that,” Juuse says. Pekka has no idea how he’s saying all of this so easily. Like if it’s out there it’ll just be true.

Pekka motions vaguely at himself. “I’m very flattered, but I’m... you know.”

“That didn’t mean anything, Pekka,” Juuse says patiently.

“I’m old,” Pekka blurts out.

“You’re only thirty,” Juuse says with a shrug.

“Thirty-two,” Pekka corrects, weakly.

“I’m rounding down,” Juuse says, and there’s a very faint smile on his lips. Pekka has the distinct feeling that he’s missing something very obvious. Juuse clears his throat. “And anyway, you’re not that old.”

“Thirty-two,” Pekka repeats.

“I’m an adult,” Juuse retorts, and the fact he has to say that in the first place probably proves Pekka’s point. He glances away for a moment, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of the Finland zip-up they gave everyone in the locker room, a size too big because that’s all they had. He looks painfully young. “Well, if you’re not—you can just say you’re not... You don’t want to. I won’t take it hard.”

The problem is that Pekka can’t say it. _I’m not into guys_. Or _I’m flattered, but it isn’t like that for me_. Or even _you’re not my type_.

Juuse’s barely twenty, celebrated his birthday a month before the start of Worlds. He should be playing video games with his friends and buying weirdly in-fashion clothing and not being attracted to men more than a decade his elder.

“This... isn’t about how I feel,” Pekka says, finally, and his throat feels like a desert. “I’m the one who tells you this is a bad idea.”

“How _do_ you feel?” Juuse asks quietly.

“You’re very handsome,” Pekka allows, and Juuse smiles at him.

“That’s good enough for me,” Juuse says, and it’s half a joke.

Pekka looks at him, probably for a moment too long. The way that Juuse seems hopeful but certain, like he knew they were always going to be here. Just a matter of what happens next.

“At least let me do this right,” Pekka says, finally. “I’ll take you out for dinner.”

“Okay.” Juuse’s face is carefully neutral.

“You should go back to your room. Curfew’s in a bit,” Pekka says, and he motions Juuse gently to the door, holds it open with one hand over his shoulder.

Juuse leans in, quick, stands on his toes to kiss Pekka on the cheek. “See you later,” he says, and he’s already bounding down the hall.

“...Bye,” Pekka says to an empty doorway.

 

Pekka pokes his head out of his room, glances up and down the hallway. The entire floor’s been booked for the Finnish team, and curfew was at 11:30, but some of the younger guys try to sneak out, and some of the veterans don’t really care about the time. The floor light above the elevator is set to the lobby. He shuts the door behind him and walks as quietly as he can.

When he gets to the right room, he carefully slides the keycard into the slot. The latch beeps, green light blinking as the door unlocks. Pekka slips in, shutting the door behind him.

“Hey,” Juuse says. He’s lying in bed, scrolling through his laptop, the bedside lamp on its dimmest setting.

Pekka toes off his slippers by the door. By the time he makes it to the bed, Juuse’s turning off the light, setting his laptop on the nightstand.

“You’re making me sneak around like a teenager,” Pekka complains, crawling under the blanket. Juuse is so warm beneath the covers, like his body’s just a ball of heat.

Juuse makes a pleased humming sound, turns to face Pekka.

“It suits you,” Juuse says, and the way that his eyes crease up when he smiles could give Pekka heart palpitations.

“No funny business,” Pekka warns, sliding one hand around Juuse’s waist.

Juuse snorts. “I should be saying that to you.”

“I start tomorrow,” Pekka says, mock seriously. “I have a lot of gameday rules, you know.”

Juuse laughs softly, tucks his head under Pekka’s chin, breathes soft and slow. His hair is ticklish where it brushes against Pekka’s skin, and he curls one hand in the front of Pekka’s shirt. “Goodnight, Pekka.”

“Goodnight,” Pekka murmurs. Juuse falls asleep fast, between one breath and the next. Pekka tries to stay awake, maybe spend an hour tossing and turning and wracking himself with guilt, but Juuse’s just so _warm_. It’s comforting, honestly. It’s less than ten minutes before he closes his eyes and drifts off.

 

Worlds ends abruptly. They lose in the quarterfinals and with nothing else to do except be tourists, they spend the rest of their time in Prague exploring the city. Pekka finds a nice restaurant, takes Juuse there under the pretense of goalie talks. Really, it’s their first date. They’re probably doing this relationship a little backwards, but they’ll call it that.

They’re waiting for the bus to the airport, milling about in the hotel lobby. Juuse’s standing next to him, scrolling through his phone, his duffel bag lying at his feet.

“Maybe I’ll see here you next year,” Pekka says. “Or... are you going to the U.S. this season?”

Juuse looks up at him. “You know I got drafted by the Predators, right?”

He did not know that. “In my defense, the goalie coaches only show me tape of myself,” Pekka says.

Juuse’s smiling. “We’ve never ran into each other at camp, either. I guess I can forgive you. But anyway, you’ll start seeing me more soon.”

“That’s some ego coming from you,” Pekka says playfully, nudging him with his elbow. “What, you’re so sure you’ll make it to the NHL?”

“I will,” he says simply. He doesn’t have to say _you’ll see_ or _just you wait_. Like he can speak it into being, just like that. In truth, Pekka believes him.

 

Finland’s wonderful like it always is, but Pekka’s starting to think of Nashville as home more often. Sure, he doesn’t particularly miss the muggy, humid summers or the mild winters, but Nashville has hockey. That’s good enough for him.

He gets in a week before training camp so he can get his house in order, get in touch with teammates trickling in from their own summers. Still, it’s a relief to get back to the rink, to recognize the routine again.

“I heard you’re getting a new back-up,” Tony says wisely, and he squawks when Eky shoves him.

“Yeah, dumbass,” he says. “We traded the other one, remember?”

Pekka’s grinning as they bicker, sips his coffee. He missed the team. Even if all they do is get into weird arguments.

“Your back-up’s here,” Arvi says, coming in through the hallway. “Did you play with him before?”

“I’m not sure,” Pekka says, standing. He wipes his hands on his sweats. “I haven’t heard who we got.”

And just like that, Juuse’s standing in the doorway, a bundle of papers folded up in one hand. When he sees Pekka, he grins, eyes creasing up in the corners. Same as he always has.

Pekka has so much to say, barely stops himself from blurting it all out while Lavy is talking. _Why didn’t you tell me yesterday when we were videochatting?_ Or, _Seriously, how didn’t I know we were in the same time zone?_ Or, _It’s probably bad form to try and kiss you in front of everyone, right?_

“And you’ve met Pekka before, of course,” Laviolette is saying. “I’m sure the two of you’ll get along.”

Juuse holds his hand out. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Yeah,” Pekka says, swallowing. He almost doesn’t know what to do now that Juuse’s _here_ , angling up so he can look Pekka in the eye, the sleeves of his Predators zip folded over his wrists. He decides he should tackle it from step one, takes Juuse’s hand in his. “You too. I’m really glad you’re here.”

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
>  
> 
> I'm over on [Tumblr](http://arzoensis.tumblr.com) more often than I am here. Let's have a chat.


End file.
